by Warren Adler
The man who had arrived with a letter earlier that day had come again late in the evening and given the Pencil another letter. This time Robert did not press his interest. There was no point in getting information that would upset him. He would know soon enough.
The television news was nonstop, the speculation endless and repetitive. But the announcement of the death of the Saudi brought him out of his chair.
“You’ve murdered him,” Robert shouted at the Pencil, who was on the phone at the time. The Pencil waved him quiet. He pictured Maria and Joey meeting the same fate, riddled with bullet holes, dumped by the roadside like garbage.
“You must calm down, Robert,” the Pencil said gently.
Not a word came out of the White House, except that the President continued to deny to his top officials that he had anything to do with these events. More lies. He was on the point of shutting off the set when another bulletin stopped him.
He turned up the volume. The commentator, with great excitement, announced that the Syrian, Libyan, and Iranian leaders had jointly and unilaterally forced the release of all hostages being held with groups with whom they could hold a dialogue. The language was stilted but the meaning unmistakable. They had buckled. His heart pounded with joy.
“He’s done it,” he shouted.
The Pencil, too, showed rare emotion. He rose and came into the kitchen to watch the television. But the events still did not lure Mrs. Santorelli, who remained at her stove stirring a pot with a wooden spoon.
The coverage centered now on scenes of hostages being bused to airports, giving thanks for their release. There was even coverage of men identified as terrorists shooting their guns in the air. It was bizarre. As a gesture of acknowledgment, world leaders were now calling for a release of the new hostages by “whoever was responsible.”
Robert let the images flow over his consciousness. His elation had quickly subsided. He waited for word of Maria and Joey. The commentators speculated, but no word was forthcoming. Time passed and still no word came. The waiting was torture. The Pencil went back to his telephone.
“Maybe it wasn’t enough,” Robert said to the Pencil.
The Pencil understood, looked at Robert, and nodded.
“We still have the Syrian girl,” Robert said. He was surprised, for he felt no shame.
35
ABOVE ALL, MARIA TRIED to preserve her sense of time. She forced herself to note outside noises, lengthening shadows, cooking smells, even the biological clock of her own body. She was in a dank basement, locked in a small room with walls of cinder block and a metal door. It was, she knew, an unfinished building, one of the many in West Beirut, its construction long ago abandoned.
She pressed her body against Joey. He slept, but it was a troubled dream-filled sleep. Occasionally he cried out, “Mama,” and she kissed him on the head. “It’s all right, sweets. Mama is here.”
They had moved three times since yesterday. Or was it yesterday? Except for the blond boy, the others had vanished. It was her own euphemism. She had no doubts that Ahmed had killed them. It was only a matter of time before the blond boy met the same fate. Then her. They had dispensed with chains.
For food, they had given her stale bread loaves, chocolate bars, and a canteen of water. At first, in this new place, she had assumed that they had left her alone and she had pounded on the metal door. It had been opened by the blond boy, who had put the muzzle of his gun to Joey’s head.
The knowledge that Ahmed’s boy had been taken from his home in Jordan had been a surprise. It was impossible to believe that this man, a killer, had fathered a son. That possibility granted, it was still impossible to believe that he could be so emotionally moved.
After he had absorbed the shock, he had gone on a rampage, breaking the television set, pounding the walls with his fist, shouting, and cursing. Oddly, he had refrained from any violent action against her or Joey. This omission was a source of hope.
Weeks before, in the comfort of her home, her son playing on the rug before the television set, her husband sitting in his favorite chair reading a book, she might have characterized these acts as despicable. Violence begets violence, she might have said, turning off the set.
Suddenly the metal door opened. Ahmed’s figure was silhouetted against the light from a flickering bulb jerry-rigged on a strand of wire. Beside him she could make out the outlines of the blond boy. They walked into the room. She sat up quickly, releasing the boy, who continued to sleep.
“Again?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
She could not make out his features, but his tone was flat, tired. She rose from the bare mattress and straightened her clothes. They had given her a pair of men’s jeans, a denim shirt, and a wool sweater. He handed her a package of material held together by string.
“Put this on,” he said.
She looked at it.
“Disguise?”
“Galabia.”
He stood over her as she rose. The blond boy next to him moved. She could hear the click of metal, perhaps the sound of his gun clashing against the cartridge case around his shoulder. For the first time since her captivity, she felt, somehow, less intimidated. They needed her to be obedient, to play her role.
Up to then they had manipulated her by threatening her child. Above all, she decided, they needed him. Machismo, she decided. The male disease. Her father, too, would be its victim. She felt more trapped, more entangled in that idea than in this web of physical captivity.
“Who are we running from?” she asked.
She saw him look toward the boy.
“All sides,” he said.
“Why don’t you just exchange us for your boy?”
“I don’t trust them,” he said. His attitude alarmed her.
“Who is them?” she asked cautiously.
“Your father.”
“But look at the lengths to which he has gone. He wants us back. What could be more obvious.” She knew what he meant. Certain assumptions had already been accepted by both of them. Whatever was happening, both knew that it was her father’s work.
“The Saudi boy is dead,” Ahmed said suddenly.
“I’m very sorry about that.”
“They are releasing all the others taken hostage by our people.”
“So there it is. It’s all over. Just release us and they’ll release your boy.”
“You don’t understand,” Ahmed sighed. He tapped his forehead. “The mentality.”
“Considering my blood lines, I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“A man like your father will want to leave his mark. He will extract vengeance. It is his nature.”
“Yours, too,” she said.
“Everything must be paid for.”
“What are you saying?”
“These Syrians and Libyans. They are demanding all hostages be released. But they are secretly promising that things will start again as soon as their people are sent home. Nothing will change with the others as well. They have offered me all kinds of money, all kinds of bribes.”
“Well then, take them, for crying out loud, and let us go.”
“First, I must get my boy.” His voice quivered with emotion. “It is the only thing of real value I have.”
“Put me in touch with my father. I’m sure it could be arranged. I will make him promise. He will also provide money, as much as you need for a lifetime.”
“I won’t believe him.”
“I’m his daughter. He won’t lie to me.”
“I will not believe any promises made to women.”
She turned away from him with disgust. She began, with slow deliberation, to put on the black galabia while her mind groped back and forth in time, searching for a way out.
“The veil, too,” he said, watching her.
“Ridiculous,” she said, holding the veil in front of her, trying to make sense of how it was to be worn. By then Joey had awakened and stood up. He was watching them with fear and curiosity.
However things turned out, his scars would be deep and lasting.
“We have a little costume for the boy as well,” Ahmed said, signaling to his companion, who produced a small package from under his arm. Ahmed took off the wrappings. It was striped pajamas and a Kaffiyen, the Arab headdress. He started to reach out for the boy.
“No,” she cried. “Don’t touch him.”
Ahmed hesitated, glared at her, then stepped back. He tossed the package on the floor. Something in his gesture suggested the thread of an idea. For the moment she put aside the veil and dressed the boy.
“Why do I have to wear this, Mommy?” Joey asked.
“It’s a new kind of game,” she said. “A masquerade.”
“I don’t want to play.” Joey pouted.
“Neither do I, sweets,” Maria said. She stopped dressing him and gripped him by his thin, bony shoulders. “You’ve been the bravest most wonderful boy a mother could ask for.” Her eyes misted and she made no effort to hide them from her son. A tear rolled over her eyelid. His little hand reached out and touched it.
“You mustn’t cry, Mommy,” Joey said. “Remember what you said.”
“Not to cry,” Maria said with effort. Her lip trembled. She nodded and tried to smile. “Damned right,” she said, brushing away her tears. “We won’t show them.”
“No we won’t, Mommy,” the boy said emphatically, with a tone that belied his years. The experience had aged him. She gathered him in her arms and crushed him against her breast.
“I love you, my dear little boy.”
“And I love you, Mommy.”
“We must leave immediately,” Ahmed said.
“It’s gotten out of hand, hasn’t it?” she asked, looking up at him. He did not answer.
She finished dressing him. “There,” she said. “You look like a little Arab boy.” Then she turned to her captor.
“Suppose I don’t cooperate?” she asked cautiously. It was, she realized, a carefully measured speculation of defiance. He must know that she was testing the waters.
“Believe me. . .” he began, but he did not finish the sentence, leaving her to interpret. He glanced toward his blond boy, then back at her. “Death means nothing to me,” he said. “I have lived with it all my life.”
In the next moment time lost all meaning. A minisecond or a lifetime. It played out simultaneously before her eyes and in her mind in very slow motion. She saw the muzzle of the gun move, like the baton of an orchestra leader, pointing suddenly downward, then, like an unexpected drumroll, it tapped out a fiery message. Color and sound overwhelmed the semidarkness, a surreal sight as the blond boy’s head disappeared in the sparkling shower of light.
36
SITTING AROUND the dining-room table, they continued to watch the television monitor. The commentators were focusing now on the whereabouts of the Padre’s daughter and grandson. They had finally gotten the message that what was happening, the release of the hostages and all the resultant hullabaloo, was peripheral to the real story. The President remained a hostage in his own White House and the Padre’s daughter and grandson were not yet free.
The euphoria as reflected in the world of television was dying down. The talk turned more to deadlines and danger. And the atmosphere in the dining room grew increasingly downbeat.
The lights on the telephone console lit up. The President paid little attention. No point in doing anything until the woman and child were released. The Padre had stopped pacing and seated himself at the table. His three-day growth of beard made him look even older. Yet he seemed very much alert, waiting, watchful.
“How do you interpret this?” the President asked Harkins.
“He could be trying to strike a deal,” Harkins answered. It seemed as good a stall as any.
“What kind of a deal?” the President asked.
“Perhaps the message wasn’t loud enough,” the Padre said, his face immobile.
“It got the point across to the Libyans, the Syrians, and the Iranians,” Harkins said.
The capitulation of Syria, Libya, and Iran was, of course, a major geopolitical event. Whether these countries would permanently eschew terrorism in the future was debatable. At least the perpetrators would now understand that the tactic was a double-edged sword.
“There are limits,” the President said, his voice barely a whisper. Harkins knew the mood. The President shook his head and rubbed his chin. Then he turned to Harkins.
“I want you to order your people to release the Libyan and the Iranian. Immediately. Do you understand that?”
Harkins nodded. He fought the desire to look toward the Padre for approval. The Padre said nothing and made no move to stop the order.
“And,” the President said, addressing the Padre, “I would suggest you do the same to the people you hold. Perhaps the example will be enough for the man to act.”
“I will order the boy released only after my daughter and grandson are safe,” the Padre replied.
“You are an intelligent man,” the President said. “Surely you have some sense of humanity. The fact is . . .” The President paused. Harkins knew he was digging deep inside himself, gathering all the residue of persuasive energy. “We’ve gone along.” He looked at his wife. Acting or not, his expression conveyed a sense of futility, perhaps shame. He seemed to Harkins like a man throwing in his poker hand, faceup.
“You’ve had the benefit of . . .” His gaze met Harkins’, then he pointed to the computer. “What more could possibly be done. You’ve even helped to accomplish something in the, forgive the political idiom, public good.”
The Padre watched him impassively.
“What in the name of God will move you?”
He had scrupulously avoided the mention of pardon. Was it time now? He turned to Harkins. “Where are we heading?”
“He will release them,” Harkins persisted.
“All right then,” the President said to the Padre. “At the very least, there is no point in holding the Syrian girl.”
“I will decide,” the Padre said.
“Neither of us are God, Padre. You would be surprised how effective a gesture of goodwill can be.”
“There is no goodwill for men like that. Only advantage.”
Harkins watched the exchange for a moment, then turned toward the keyboard.
“Are you sure about this order, Mr. President?” he asked, knowing it was a message meant for the Padre. The Padre watched them without comment.
“Absolutely,” the President said.
Harkins hesitated, his fingers poised on the keyboard. He wished he had more leeway to think it out.
“I can remove you instantly, Harkins,” the President pressed. It seemed unrealistic. Without him, they would have no access to the computers.
Harkins had hardly finished tapping out the message when one of the networks announced yet another bulletin with the familiar words “This just in.”
All eyes turned to the television set.
“Police in Amherst have found what appears to be the body of the twenty-one-year-old daughter of the Syrian President. The woman was apparently murdered by a burst of fire that has severely mutilated the body. Beside it police have found her pocketbook, which contained her license—”
“You bastards,” the First Lady cried.
Her voice was shrill. When she stood up she toppled the chair. Harkins saw the object in her hand, a bit of flashing silver. She was holding a small pistol in firing position. She moved back a few steps, as if wishing to take in a wider range.
Benjy, who had been closest to her, started to move.
“No,” the Padre barked. Benjy stopped in his tracks.
“Easy, Amy,” the President said.
Although there was a slight tremor in her hand, she held the pistol firmly. Only her eyes betrayed her panic as she fought to keep herself under control. The men in the room froze, watching her.
“The choices are yours now, Mrs. Bernard,” the Padre said.
; “I’m not afraid,” she said with effort.
“There’s still time,” Harkins said. He had not yet let go of the old assumptions. Perhaps now, with the Syrian’s child gone, Safari would get the message. Odd, he thought, how he could not shut down his mind in the face of imminent death. He was, surprisingly, unafraid.
“You know it’s wrong, Paul. These people are murderers. How can you deal with them?
“Amy, please. Whatever happens, you have your own children to think about.”
“These people are vermin, Paul.”
“There were no clear choices, Amy. Please put that gun down.”
“There were for me.”
“Dying is not a choice,” the President said.
She looked at the Padre. The panic was draining out of her eyes. She had obviously assessed her position. She was, very definitely, in control.
“None of you seem interested in that condition for yourselves.” she mocked, looking at the Padre. “But you’re quick to dispense it for others.”
“I told you,” the Padre said coolly. “Everything is in direct relation to the fear of death.”
“Then you fear it as much as we do,” she said, her voice stronger but still shaky. “I would say there were hot times ahead for you.”
“Please, Amy.”
The President stood up, took a cautious step forward. It did not deter her from pointing the gun in his direction.
“This is Paul, Amy,” he said.
“Then act like Paul.”
He stopped. In the long pause that followed, the commentator’s voice seemed to fill the room. He was still talking about the young Syrian girl. Then the scene shifted to the face of a man. He was the Syrian President. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Although her attention, too, had been deflected to the screen, no one made a move to get to her.
“Was it really necessary?” she asked the Padre.
“The man is knee deep in other people’s blood,” the Padre responded. “He does not deserve your pity.”
